Black Dog Night
by DezoPenguin
Summary: By the light of the full moon, a devilish spectre stalks a noble family. But is this visitation a curse for an ancient wrong, or does it have another purpose?
1. Chapter 1

I

The full moon hung high in the sky, bloated and swollen as if it had gorged itself on stars in order to fuel the sickly yellow light that bathed the land. Harvey Webbinger didn't care about melodramatic poetry, though. The stablehand was more interested in practical affairs, such as the fact that he didn't have to blunder about in the dark. That was important when a man had been up to the Black Dog for a wee drop of gin, and fully intended to drink a few more wee drops from the bottle he was taking home. One time it had been so dark that he'd stumbled right off the road, fallen in a ditch, and ended up passing the night in the muck. No, when a man's senses were slightly impaired he appreciated a good, bright moon to show him the way home.

Harvey crossed over the wooden bridge that marked the edge of Calvert lands. Technically the farms and even the village were part of the baronial holdings, but the land across the bridge was what went with the manor, the border between what belonged to the family and what belonged to the title. The legal subtleties tended to escape people like Harvey, but they knew that the boundary was significant.

He'd gotten a fair distance up the road when he heard the howl. The sound slashed through him like a cold blast of wind, driving out the alcoholic fog. Though he'd never heard it before, he knew at once what it was--anyone in the district would. Terror, stark staring fear, gripped him like a devil's claw. Harvey stood, trembling, unable to advance or retreat, as if his feet had been nailed to the road's surface.

Until he saw it.

Jet black it was, its shoulders as high as a man's, muscles rippling beneath the sleek, glossy pelt. The only color about the thing was the brilliant white of its teeth and claws and the dull, sorcerous red glow of its eyes. Those eyes stared at Harvey, and a deep, rumbling growl emanated from the monster's throat.

The terror that held the stablehand broke then, shattered by the gut-wrenching fear of immediate danger. He took off at a dead run, sprinting pell-mell down the road towards the manor, imagining the beast's claws scraping the road and its hot breath on his back the whole way.

II

"The Beast of Beaufrere? Are you serious, Tom?" asked Geraldine Collins. Seventeen years old, fresh out of seminary and ready to make her debut next Season, she was fond of the Gothic novels she and her school friends would read aloud by candlelight. She shivered deliciously at the name her brother had reported.

"Cross my heart; that's what the innkeeper said while I was arranging for our rooms." Baron Thomas Collins shared his red hair and fair skin with his sister, but otherwise looked quite different; where she was elfin and petite, Tom had strong, square features well-suited to a country sportsman, which was exactly what he was. "Apparently, it nearly had a stablehand from up at the Hall for a snack last night. On his way home from this very establishment, he was."

"And no doubt full of this establishment's ale or gin," remarked Cassie Sirop. She was a woman of indeterminate age: her short brown hair, pince-nez spectacles, and shapeless dress tended to blur any such judgments, though if one looked closely she would not seem much older than Collins. "Pink elephants are the usual of course, but why not black beasts?"

Ordinarily the six guests in the Black Dog's dining room would not have been seated together, but the tavern was not really a proper coaching inn and lacked a private parlor. The Collinses had been en route from their estates to the capital and had stopped for the night. Miss Sirop actually had been a passenger on the public stage, which had broken an axle and been forced to stop for the night. Beauregard Jolais and Grigio Pine had already been guests, while the sixth member of the company, Dr. Slivovitz, had come to the Black Dog solely because of the inn-wife's talents with a joint of lamb. With a deluge of the Quality, the innkeeper had, with a keen appreciation of the social classes (and their relative ability to pay), ushered the ordinary village clientele into the taproom and set the dining room aside for the use of the others, creating a kind of impromptu dinner party.

"But what _is_ this Beast supposed to be?" Pine asked. "Our host talked like it was common knowledge." He was a wiry man with thinning hair and nervous, fidgety mannerisms. His speech held that odd combination of arrogance and servility that came with a man being placed in temporary authority over those who outranked him, perhaps as a schoolmaster or tutor.

"Only a local legend," harrumphed Jolais. He and the doctor were both within a few years of fifty, one way or the other. Unlike his contemporary, who was running to fat, Jolais's build was solid and fit. "Hardly worth your time."

"But it sounds so exciting!" Geraldine protested. "Back home there are supposed to be all sorts of lurking dark shadows but they're just _stories. _No one ever actually says they _see_ our ghosts."

"I wonder if it has anything to do with the name of this inn?" Pine mused. "Black Beast, Black Dog..." He pointed to the painting that hung over the mantel. It showed a hound that appeared more monster than animal, with blazing eyes and foam-flecked jaws, standing on a tor beneath the full moon.

"Thank you, Mr. Pine; that certainly would explain the source of the man's hallucination," observed Miss Sirop.

"Or maybe the painting is of the same thing the fellow saw," countered Tom.

"I am afraid there is no escaping it," the doctor spoke up. The fleshy lips framed by his salt-and-pepper beard and moustache curved in a smile as faint as the traces of a foreign accent in his voice. Despite his size everything was orderly and precise about him, from his immaculate grooming to the cut of his clothes to the fastidious way he ate, dissecting his meat as if his steak knife was a scalpel. "The majority have had their say, is it not so?" His eyes twinkled at Jolais.

"Damned lot of nonsense," the man said. "Black beasts--devil dogs--rot, all of it!" Yet there was something about how he said it that lacked the casual dismissiveness of Miss Sirop. Jolais's denials were too forceful, too personal. In short, he was trying too hard. The more perceptive among his dinner companions began to get the distinct impression that there was something about the story of the Beast of Beaufrere that Beauregard Jolais distinctly did not like.

"Oh, do tell us the story, Dr. Slivovitz," Geraldine asked, clasping her tiny hands and looking at him pleadingly in a way that never failed to excite the sympathy of the male target. Tom reflected that it was a good thing the doctor seemed willing to tell; his sister could be quite the insistent devil when she had the bit between her teeth.

"It is more the place of Mr. Jolais to be our _raconteur_, I think."

"Oh? Why is that?"

"Because," Jolais put in, "I happen to be a cousin of the Calverts."

The announcement made Pine flinch in surprise. Miss Sirop and the doctor both glanced at him, surprised in turn by his sudden nervous reaction.

"So, it's a legend of the Calvert family, then?" Geraldine pounced.

Jolais snorted huffily.

"Idiocy. All nonsense spread by people with too much time for tittle-tattle." His eyes flicked to the painting over the fireplace again. "Pure nonsense," he repeated.

"I like nonsense," Miss Sirop put in unexpectedly. "It makes for a better story when narratives can be tied off neatly. Real life doesn't wrap up with a happily-ever-after and a moral."

"Oh," Pine stammered. "Oh, yes, I see what you mean."

"And she is quite right," Dr. Slivovitz said, his enigmatic smile back again. "There is no neat end to the story of the Beast of Beaufrere."

"Damn it all!" Jolais cursed loudly, slamming his fist down on the table and making the plates and cutlery rattle. "Must you all go on and on about this? Can you speak of nothing else?"

"Well I say!" Geraldine snapped. "I think you're being frightfully rude, Mr. Jolais. If it's only a story, then what harm can there be in telling it? We're most of us strangers here, and a chance to hear a local legend sounds fun. I'd certainly be happy to tell any of our ghost stories if you'd come to visit us!"

Jolais swept the table with his eyes, then reached for his glass and gulped down what was left of the indifferent house red it contained.

"Fine, then!" he shot back. "Do as you like, but don't expect me to tell the tale." He glanced at the doctor. "If you're so eager for everyone to hear, Slivovitz, then you tell it."

"If the young lady insists," he assented. "But let us wait until after dinner, hm? A good meal and a good story are both worthwhile things, but they go better in sequence rather than together."

Geraldine smiled winsomely at him.

"Oh, no, that's quite all right," she said. "Besides, the sun is almost down, and ghost stories are always better by night!"

This eager statement made Miss Sirop and Tom share an amused look, one because she'd been that age herself once and one because he knew his sister all too well.

"Not quite what you expected from your holiday, is it, Mr. Pine?" Tom offered affably.

"Eh, what?" Pine said quickly--too quickly.

"Well, you're here for a few days of quiet rest in the country, isn't that right? All of a sudden, here's an impromptu dinner party and rumors of ghostly forces at large."

"Oh, y-yes, that's true."

"Diabolic," the doctor said, before taking a mouthful of lamb.

"Eh?"

Dr. Slivovitz was not to be rushed; he chewed and swallowed before he answered.

"You said ghostly forces, Baron Collins. In truth the matter of the Beast of Beaufrere is rather darker than one of mere ghosts."

Jolais's hand clenched tightly on his knife so that his knuckles turned white. Geraldine gasped, Miss Sirop's eyes narrowed, and Pine trembled in his seat.

And no one said anything else until the dinner was cleared.

III

The innkeeper had removed the supper dishes and served a selection of fruit, cheese, coffee, and brandy to the guests' taste. Only the latter was of indifferent quality; though the Black Dog was only a country inn, its owner took pride in the table he set for his customers. Baron Collins sipped from his glass, the candlelight lending a faint glow to the amber liquid.

"Well, Dr. Slivovitz?" his sister asked eagerly. Geraldine and the medical man were the only ones who had abstained from spirits; Jolais, Pine, and somewhat surprisingly Miss Sirop had all taken brandy.

"Quite so," he said. "I shall put you off no longer. The Beast of Beaufrere, or as you rightly anticipated sometimes called the Black Dog of the Calverts, is a demonic creature said to stalk the Calvert family on the nights of the full moon."

"Last night was a full moon," Pine said somewhat fatuously.

"As is," the doctor replied, "tonight." He rubbed his big hands together with something akin to relish. "A suitable evening to recount the tale."

Jolais bit savagely into an apple as if to vent emotions that might otherwise seek a different, violent outlet.

"As you may be aware, the Calverts are a noble family of long standing. The current Lord Calvert is the fourteenth baron in the line. Many of the family have served with distinction at Court or in the military. However, it is also undeniably true that from time to time there have been intimations that the Calverts have been involved in the practice of unhallowed arts. One younger son was actually burned at the stake for witchcraft a hundred and fifty years ago, and rumors and legends have persisted stubbornly even into our modern day, with our more enlightened attitude towards magic."

The eyes of the other four diners were drawn inexorably towards Jolais, but the big man did not speak up brashly in defense of his family. Instead he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, suggesting that even from the point of view of a family insider he had heard the rumors, and perhaps knew that there was something more to them than just gossip.

"The legend of the Beast is said to date from the time of the fourth baron, MacAdam Calvert. He was a hard man, a harsh one who considered the land and its people to belong to him and extracted every scrap of value from it. He was also an ambitious man, who wanted to be a grand lord in the style of the great dukes and marquis. It was this trait that led him into trouble."

The doctor took a sip of coffee to wet his tongue.

"Lord Calvert was riding his estates one day, calculating in his head the how this piece of land or that stream might best be exploited to the greatest value, when he realized that he was constantly addressing the same issues: he would save a penny here and another there, but those were the stakes of his life. He was a petty noble in a country filled with them, a man with the will and determination to make himself great but--as he saw it--thwarted by the lack of opportunity. Overcome by this frustration, he bellowed that he would give his very soul for the chance to prove what he could do. It had been a careless oath, and he was very surprised to receive an answer.

"A soft voice almost like a cat's purr said, 'That is a very dangerous thing to say, milord.' Lord Calvert jerked back in his saddle in surprise, looking around for the speaker, and he realized that there was a man standing in the road where he'd have sworn there was none before."

Geraldine shivered with excitement and clutched at her brother's arm.

"The stranger was dressed in the brown homespun robe of a friar, with a rope belt, but his face held all the beauty of a classical sculpture, showing both the perfection of line and curve and the aristocratic bearing, a pride of place most unusual in a friar. The man's sudden appearance, his looks, his voice, all these things unnerved and disquieted Lord Calvert, but the baron was a hard-headed man not given to what _he_ would see as womanish fears. 'Hold your tongue, monk,' he bellowed. 'It's a man's right to go to the devil in his own way.'

"This brazen declaration only made the friar smile. 'Indeed it is, my lord, indeed it is. And is ambition your way, then?'

"Lord Calvert glowered down at the too-beautiful friar. Part of him wanted nothing more than to raise his riding crop and drive the man from his lands, yet something held him back. It may be assumed that that something was not the respect owed to a man of the cloth."

The doctor smiled faintly as he sipped his coffee, inviting his listeners into the spirit of the joke.

"At last, then, as if compelled, he answered the friar's question. 'It is not ambition, is it, to seek out one's natural place? I have it in me to rule, so why shouldn't I?'

"'Why indeed? You see lesser men set above you, are forced to endure their stupidity and their apathy. So why shouldn't you take from them what they clearly are not fit to hold? Is that what you are saying?'

"'Yes, damn it, that's it exactly!' Lord Calvert slapped his thigh with a sharp crack. 'But it's impossible as things are. If I am to climb to the heights then I need a foothold, a grip to start my climb with!'

"Once again the friar smiled at him, his eyes glittering. 'And would you truly give your soul for that, Lord Calvert?'

"'When I say a thing, I mean it!' Calvert roared. 'Do _you_, then, claim to be the devil, offering such a bargain?'

"The friar laughed, the sound rich and musical. 'The devil? Oh, not I, not I...but perhaps when you talk to me he can hear you?'

"'In that case, I need not waste my time with you!' snapped the baron and turned his horse. The friar stopped him with a word.

"'That is as may be, milord. Ride on if you will, but remember this. If the chance to seize your destiny ever presents itself, look for me and I will insure that it comes into your hands...if you are willing to pay my price.' And with that he smiled enigmatically, folding his hands inside of his sleeves. Lord Calvert stared at him, not knowing what to think, but at last he snorted and set spur to his horse's flanks. Angry with himself for being shaken by the friar's manner, he vowed to put the encounter from his mind--but as things turned out, he was unable to do that."

"What happened?" Geraldine asked.

Dr. Slivovitz smiled at her.

"Circumstances--or perhaps something more--contrived to set temptation in his path."

Miss Sirop toyed with the stem of her glass.

"That does happen more often than one would suspect." She glanced at the nervous man next to her. "Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Pine?"

He flinched in his seat, startled.

"Y-yes, quite."

"In this case," continued the doctor, "the temptation took the form of a Royal Messenger. It was three days after Lord Calvert's encounter with the strange friar when the man arrived. He was a typical fellow of his sort, at least to the baron's mind--a courtier from the capital, more used to palace life than the practicalities of reality. The nobility of the robe, as it was called, rather than the nobility of the sword, more skilled with a dinner knife than a weapon. In arrogant terms, he demanded shelter for the evening with the authority of his position. He was equally arrogant at dinner, where he inflated his own ego with tales of how important he was, of the trust placed in him by the powers of the kingdom.

"Lord Calvert, of course, was by no means impressed with the messenger's airs. To him it was merely more proof of his own belief in his own self-worth, that he was suited to far more than his petty holdings while men such as this carried power and influence. Truculently, he scoffed at the messenger's claims, calling him a glorified errand-boy. Predictably this raised the man's ire; he drew himself up haughtily.

"'You stupid fool,' he said, 'hiding out here in the wilderness, with no idea what affairs of moment may be going on right under your nose.'

"'So you say.'

"'Yes, Lord Calvert, I do. Why here,' the messenger said, tapping the bag at his waist, 'I carry with me His Majesty's appointment of the new sheriff of this district--_your_new overlord.' He smiled cruelly at the baron, not unaware of the other's scorn.

"Perhaps it was the encounter with the monk that afternoon, or merely the messenger's arrogant manner, but Lord Calvert found himself unable to hold his feelings in check. He fumed, he raged, he gnawed at his liver in frustration. The position of sheriff was not precisely that of a liege lord or a provincial governor, but it was close enough: it was responsible for overseeing the local military, drawing upon the resources of towns and landholders for the king's armies. In other words, it was yet another person to draw upon Calvert's holdings and deny him their use.

"This frustration so worried at Lord Calvert that it unnerved the messenger. Even so insensitive and pompous a man as he could tell when, for whatever reason, he had pushed someone too far. Therefore, he announced that while he appreciated the baron's hospitality, his duties were pressing and he could not afford to stay the night, but had to ride on. The instincts, you see, of the bully and coward were working strongly in him, and he scented danger, a reason for him to leave at once."

"And he was right, wasn't he?" Geraldine asked excitedly.

"Most definitely he was," said the doctor. "The messenger had his horse saddled and departed the manor, but in his wake he left a man stewing in wrath and envy. Discontent ate at the baron; everywhere he cast his eye he saw nothing but evidence of his own failures, his own weakness. He saw table settings and wondered why they could not be of silver. He saw armorial trophies and wondered why they should not be from glorious conquests. He saw the manor walls and resented that they were not of a mighty chateau.

"Within half an hour of the messenger's departure, Lord Calvert was in a fever of rage. He called for his horse to ride and clear his head, but instead found himself pounding down the road on the messenger's trail. At full gallop he ran down the man in under twenty minutes. The messenger spurred his own horse at the sight of him, seeing his death in the baron's crazed eyes. It was too late for him, though. Lord Calvert's sword shone in the moonlight as it swung, and then it shone no more, bloodied with the gore of its victim."

Jolais's features twisted into a scowl, no doubt displeased at the story's slur on his ancestor's character.

"Almost as soon as the deed was done, the scales dropped from Lord Calvert's eyes. The emotion ebbed at once, as if the murdered man's blood had washed away some enchantment. He looked down at the body of his victim, no doubt aghast at what he had done but primarily, as he was a practical man, concerned with how he could escape punishment for what was not only a crime but a treasonous act.

"Which is when he heard that too-beautiful voice again, and looked up to see the friar standing by the side of the road, as if he had just emerged from the wood.

"'I see, milord, that you have wasted no time in seizing your opportunity,' he said, and his laughter rang like the chiming of bells at a funeral."


	2. Chapter 2

IV

Dr. Slivovitz dabbed fastidiously at his lips, surveying the effect his story had thus far had on his audience. He was not displeased. The Collins girl was rapt, wide-eyed and eager for more, and her brother, too, seemed actively interested. Miss Sirop appeared attentive, yet faintly amused, so the doctor was certain she was enjoying the story but _as_ a story rather than as an explanation of the creature recently seen in the district. Pine, on the other hand, shivered in his seat. Meanwhile, a scowl was firmly fixed on the face of Beauregard Jolais, but that was no surprise given that the legend of the Beast of Beaufrere began with a murder committed by his ancestor.

"It's all rot!" burst from the man, "A bunch of damned fool nonsense."

"Is...is the doctor getting the story wrong?" Pine asked, almost hopefully.

"Ye--" Jolais began to insist, then broke off, frowned, and shook his head. "No, in good conscience I can't say that. He's telling the legend according to how it goes, though embroidering in places."

"Dramatic license," Dr. Slivovitz responded with a thin smile.

"It's the story itself that's the problem. Accusing an ancestor of mine of murder and black magic. Bad enough that the people in this district tell the story among themselves..." His voice trailed off and he glanced aside, almost as if he wanted to say more but for some reason couldn't bring himself to keep on with it.

"So what happened next?" Geraldine asked excitedly.

Dr. Slivovitz glanced at his critic as if requesting permission to keep on, but Jolais said no more. Smiling again, the doctor resumed the tale.

"Lord Calvert stared at the friar in disbelief. He could scarcely understand what he was seeing, the sudden appearance of the man just at the moment he'd committed the murder.

"'You...you devil!' he gasped. 'It's you who did this! You put a spell on me, twisted my mind!'

"The friar only laughed at him. 'Is that what you believe?' he mocked. 'Were you so pure as the driven snow before? Or are you just a man who has seen where his destiny lies and was not afraid to chart his course?'

"'Where my destiny lies? This is murder! No one saw me do it'--for some reason he could not conceive of the friar bearing witness against him--'but even if I conceal the body so that it is never found, he was a Royal Messenger.' Now that the bitter hate that seemed to possess him had faded, Lord Calvert realized that the Crown would make searching inquiries into what had become of its minion. It would be discovered that he had stopped to dine at Calvert's manor--that there had been words between them--that the messenger had left when the expected thing would have been to stay the night--and most of all that the baron had himself ridden out after the man. It was not at all impossible that despite his rank he would find himself facing the headsman's axe.

"'Quite so,' the friar answered with a knowing look that made it seem as if he was answering Lord Calvert's thoughts rather than his words. 'Yet do you have a _reason_ for murdering this man? What royal business have you placed your hand into, milord?'

"'He was carrying the appointment of the new sheriff of this district. Another leech to suck away what little I have!'

"'I see. How bitter it must be, for us to talk of ambition and then find yourself thwarted that very evening. But come, milord, you have not yet seen the spoils of your crime. Why hesitate now?'

"Lord Calvert wanted nothing to do with the body. To drag it into the wood and bury it in a shallow grave, perhaps, but certainly not to inspect it closely, to touch the dead flesh or rifle the corpse's possessions. And yet, that was exactly what he found himself doing. The friar's mocking eyes were like a compulsion, driving him on. They held out to him--what? Nothing so kindly as _hope_, surely. But something, for he opened the courier's packet, removed the document, and broke the seal on the folded paper. In the eerily-bright moonlight he read the name scribed there, and the hate began to rise in him once more.

"'Him!' the baron barked. 'By God, this is a travesty!' He slapped the paper, making it crackle sharply. 'That bootlicker! He can do nothing but grovel at his betters' feet for scraps! How could he think to defend the king's authority or control the fractious lords? With him as sheriff there will be strife within six months, if not open rebellion! What could His Majesty have been thinking? No, more likely the Chamberlain has rewarded his lapdog for yapping on command or fetching his master some treat.'

"'And you believe that you could do a better job?'

"'Of course I could! The position demands a strong leader! The nobles are too independent, to free to pass local edicts. They need a firm hand to keep them in line, but a cool head to insure that everyone benefits. A noble made wealthy by the status quo isn't likely to rebel against the throne.'"

Miss Sirop smiled wryly.

"So he says while standing over the corpse of a technically treasonous offense."

Dr. Slivovitz chuckled at her sally.

"I suspect that the irony of the situation escaped him in that moment."

He nibbled delicately at a piece of cheese before resuming the story.

"It was the friar who spoke, then. 'In that case, then would the perfect solution for your troubles be for _you_ to be appointed the new sheriff of the district?'

"'That's hardly likely to happen now.'

"'Ah, but I mean for it to have _already_ happened. The messenger visited you tonight. He handed you your appointment papers and seal of office. Then he left. Perhaps you rode out later, but what of it? Why would _you_ follow him? You've had your good news from his hands. No doubt he was attacked by robbers, who then panicked and fled when they realized what their victim was. You, meanwhile, carry on in your position, the first step towards making the Calverts one of the great names in the kingdom.'

"Lord Calvert laughed mockingly. 'Yes, indeed--quite the elegant solution! Unfortunately, that is not my name written here!'

"The friar smiled, his face radiant with a hideous kind of joy. 'Milord, the only things that say you are _not_ the newly-appointed sheriff are the words written on this document and the memories of the man who ordered it to be drafted.'

"'Oh, _that's_ all.'

"'Indeed. Documents are forged and altered every day in the capital by mere skill of hand alone. As for the other, will you truly say that it is impossible when you yourself just accused me of enchanting you to commit murder?'

"Lord Calvert trembled. Was this man truly saying these things? He recited them so matter-of-factly that he made it seem almost possible. Yet assuredly there was a price, and after their talk that afternoon he was afraid that he knew what that price would be."

"His soul?" Geraldine breathed.

"That was precisely what Lord Calvert asked, and in response received a long, delicious laugh from the friar. 'Why milord, did you not say that it was every man's right to go to the devil in his own way? I would not dream of interfering with that right.' He laughed again. 'But to enchant a high official, that is not a small thing. Ah! I have it. As sheriff you will have personal control over certain properties on royal lands. There is one such property, a ruined abbey called Vasten. Legend has it, I believe, that it fell to ruin a century ago when one of the brethren into diabolic rites, until the locals rose against the monks' depravities and burned the abbey. I wish to make this abbey my home, and to reside there...unmolested.'

"Lord Calvert's gaze narrowed.

"'That's all?'

"The friar nodded. 'That is all.'

"'My life, and a position of prestige, in return for letting you haunt an ancient ruin? Fine, then. Consider it done.'

"'Then we have a bargain. Shall I offer a sign of my good faith now, before I leave you to address...this?' he said, gesturing at the corpse. There was no real point in refusing, so at the friar's direction Lord Calvert held the charter of appointment out in front of him. The friar extended his hand over the paper and whistled shrilly. A noise echoed it, a rustling as if of wings but somehow wet and pulpy as if those wings were splashing through water, and then a shape descended to alight on the friar's forearm. Lord Calvert's eyes did not seem to want to follow its outline; he took little impression of it beyond that it appeared to be black and winged. The creature, whatever it was, gave a cry that sounded much like a peregrine's but choked and gurgling as if it was drowning.

"Then, before the baron's astonished gaze, the ink which outlined his rival's name appeared to run and flow together into a liquid pool, which then separated out again into letters reading, 'MacAdam, Baron Calvert.' The creature launched itself upwards, vanishing into the night sky.

"The friar smiled and said, 'There you are, milord Sheriff. Do not forget your seal of office before you conceal the corpse. No doubt we shall meet again.'

"Lord Calvert bent to the body to remove the seal, and when he looked up the friar had vanished."

"What was he?" Geraldine asked. "A devil, like the baron thought?"

"More likely a sorcerer, Miss Collins," Pine suggested. "His remarks at the first meeting and the request for a residence made it seem like he is at the least human, and the creature was no doubt his familiar. _It_ would have been some kind of devil."

"So what happened next?" Tom asked. "How does the black dog come into it?" He seemed almost as interested as his sister.

"Well, things went exactly as the friar had suggested. Lord Calvert buried the body with its valuables and possessions intact, then returned home. In the morning, he announced the alleged purpose of the messenger's visit and, leaving a bailiff in charge of the estates, took his family to the castle of Redmarch, the seat of the sheriff's authority. There his claim was unquestioned and he assumed the role. For nearly a month he was on tenterhooks, fearing discovery of his fraud at every turn, but as messages and correspondence went back and forth between himself and the capital without difficulty, he began to accept that the friar had done his work there."

"What happened with the messenger's murder?" Miss Sirop wanted to know.

"Eventually his absence was noted and a hue and cry raised. Lord Calvert, as sheriff, sent out search parties, but these found nothing. Inquiries were made concerning several of the messenger's distinctive valuables--a signet ring, a jeweled dagger--but no trace of them was found as they had been buried with him. His horse was likewise never located, because Lord Calvert had stripped it of its tackle and set it loose. Without any distinctive markings it had almost certainly been found running free and sold, its finder unwilling to speak up for fear of having to give up the money it had brought. Opinion remained split as to whether the man had absconded or met with some misadventure, with a minority of more lurid tales mixed in such as having him carried off by the fae or meeting the devil at a moonlit crossroads.

"Meanwhile, within a few months other rumors began to spread, rumors of a strange man taking up residence in the ruins of Vasten Abbey. At first he was believed to be a hermit, a holy anchorite, but this supposition was soon replaced by other, darker rumors, of strange lights seen at night and weird shapes flitting through the darkness. Some claimed he was the ghost of one of the abbey's fallen brethren. Others argued that he was a sorcerer who sold curses and maledictions to those of ill will.

"At first Lord Calvert simply ignored these rumors, pooh-poohing them as the delusions of the superstitious peasantry and not worth the law's time. After nearly a year had passed, though, the rumors had not died down with familiarity but had redoubled in strength until the clamors for action began to be heard from people of influence, from wealthy burghers and members of the nobility. Lord Calvert went to Vasten Abbey to confront the friar, to plead with him to leave the area, but he only sneered and told the baron that a price had been agreed upon, and the penalty for those who breached Hell's contracts was steep indeed. Lord Calvert was driven from the abbey, mocking laughter ringing in his ears."

"But he returned, didn't he?"

"Indeed he did, Miss Sirop. He returned at high noon in one week, with a troop of armsmen at his back. They rushed the camp and took the friar into custody, whether because his devils had power only in the hours of darkness or because he simply chose not to fight back or because he was taken by surprise--who can say? For whatever cause, they were able to capture him and destroy his grimoires and other sorcerous paraphernalia. He was then duly tried as a sorcerer and condemned to death. As sheriff, Lord Calvert was obliged to preside at the trial and execution, all the time prepared for the friar to indict him for his part, but the accused said nothing, merely smiling mockingly at him the entire time. It was only when the ashes were cleared that the words were seen, as if burnt into the hard ground: 'As you called on my aid by moonlight, so shall I call upon you.' There was nothing more--until the next night of the full moon.

"That was when _it_ appeared."

"The Black Dog?" Geraldine breathed.

A faint smile played about the doctor's lips.

"Precisely."

He folded his hands before him.

"A giant hound, as black as pitch with blazing red eyes, as monstrous in size as in visage--five feet at the shoulder. It was seen prowling the moors around Redmarch as if stalking something. Lord Calvert laughed these incidents off, pointing out that neither human nor animal had apparently suffered at the thing's doing--but his laughter was brittle, and from the first report of the beast's appearance it was seen that he was never outside after dark on the nights of the full moon." No member of the doctor's audience could restrain themselves from glancing at Jolais.

"For three months the baron avoided his doom. For three months the whispers grew. An accursed man is distrusted and shunned. Rumors passed through every hall. Was this the dead man's vengeance? If so, was there truly a tie between Lord Calvert and the friar? Speculation grew, until at last the baron could bear it no longer. His own court had become a prison for him, a prison of stealthy glances and silent thoughts. He drank more and more, trying to hide from the fear, but it did nothing to help him, until at last one night, whether from the courage of the bottle or the utter despair that kills even fear, he ventured out to face the beast. His torn and mangled body was found the next morning.

"And ever since, it is said, that when a particularly wicked member of the Calvert family arises, the beautiful monk's devil returns, to carry the sinner's soul off to Hell."

There was a long, silent moment after the doctor concluded his tale, broken when Jolais tossed off the last of his brandy, stood and tossed down a fistful of coins that rattled against each other.

"There! Since the entertainment was at my expense, why not let the dinner be as well?" He stalked from the room in search of his bed, more than one gaze following his progress.

"Was it the story that offended him, or our eagerness to hear it?" Pine speculated.

"Well, I think he's being very rude," Geraldine said. "I think it was a wonderful story, Dr. Slivovitz; I'm sure that every time I hear a howl tonight I'll imagine that it's the Black Dog of the Calverts and not be able to get a wink of sleep. He's just all puffed up because he's got too much family pride."

Her brother's gaze lingered on the door by which Jolais had departed.

"I wonder, Geraldine. I very much wonder."

V

The full moon's baleful eye glared down upon the quiet countryside even through the wispy cloudsthat now and again brushed across it, shining over the Calvert lands, the forest and the heath, the Black Dog Inn and the village beyond. The sickly light of the moon, however, was not the most fearful illumination. Less sweeping in scope but far more threatening was the dull, rust-red gleam emanating from the lines and symbols of a sorcerous Rune, a malevolent light like old blood, old corruption. The light flowed beneath the hood of the Rune's caster, turning the face of the cloaked sorcerer into a hideous mask.

The blazing Rune's fires ebbed, darkening to a fainter, more placid glow as the summoning completed itself. Shadows coalesced as the conjured devil took form, the massive shape of the Beast of Beaufrere raising its muzzle to the moon, a literal hound of hell.

"Now go, my beauty. Go to the manor house and bring doom to Lord Calvert!"

The giant devil-hound snarled deep in its throat, baring fangs that gleamed white.

"I thought as much."

The sorcerer swung his head around and saw a similarly cloaked figure step out from the trees.

"Let me guess. You let your barghest there play its creditable imitation of the Black Dog of the Calverts for a couple of nights, making sure it was seen by a few witnesses so that the credulous villagers would assume that the killer was a devilish legend. It's a ready-made scenario: the legends talk about a devil-dog, and that's what would kill the baron. Only instead of a family curse, sorcery summoned this particular creature. You even managed to rope in a few traveling witnesses tonight, when the tale came out, acting like you were afraid of the story even as you blustered and denied it to make sure it was cemented in everyone's minds."

"What--? Who?"

The intruder pushed back her hood, revealing the face of Miss Sirop.

"Surprise!" she taunted. "Or were you expecting Mr. Pine, that silly tutor? No; he's just an ordinary thief who stole from his employers and now can't stop looking over his shoulder for the justice he expects to fall."

"You stupid bitch! You may not be a Calvert, but I'm sure that the Beast won't mind a light snack before his meal."

Miss Sirop smiled.

"Seriously, Jolais, did you actually think I'd come here and confront you and your pet devil without planning things out in advance?" she mocked. "Do I look stupid to you?"

Chittering shrilly, bells on their caps jingling, a swarm of imps burst from the trees. The tiny figures rushed towards the barghest, passing around Miss Sirop like a wave. The demon hound tore into them, ripping apart two almost instantly, while Jolais's Rune blazed up again as he tried to summon more help. His opponent, however, already had her reinforcements in place. Two hulking, horned and winged demons were the next things to emerge from the forest, flanking a black cat walking on its hind legs.

A grimalkin.

Jolais was a competent sorcerer. He could have summoned up such creatures himself for battle had he been given the opportunity, but it was his opponent who had prepared for combat while he had only prepared to do murder. All his experience did for him was to let him know what would happen next. The grimalkin pointed at the barghest and the hound dropped, incapacitated by the sleeping spell. The surviving imps swarmed it, slashing the sleeping beast with their claws until it dissolved into sulfurous black smoke. One demon tore down Jolais's Rune, while the other seized the sorcerer and bore him to the ground.

"Damn you!" he howled furiously. "Who are you? Why are you doing this?"

"I already told you who I was. I know we'd never met face-to-face, but still you really should remember my name."

_I already told you_, Jolais thought. She couldn't mean the name she'd used at the inn. He'd surely have recognized that, if it was somehow important. But the only thing she'd said to him other than mocking him was...

"Surprise," he murmured. "_Margarita_ Surprise. The traitor! You were sent to the Tower to aid the Archmage's return! You failed and let Lillet Blan destroy him!"

"Well, technically, I didn't so much 'let' Lillet destroy him as I 'helped' her. Not that she needed it. I mean, seriously, I understand why even the most fanatical of you guys never got around to seeking revenge against _her_."

"Then you--"

"Came here after you? Yeah, pretty much. And when I found that you were up to your eyes in this little plot to kill off your cousin's family and inherit the lands and title, that made up my mind. If you're just going to go around committing more acts like you did for the Archmage, then you have to be stopped."

"Wait! We could join forces! There's plenty here for us both to make a fresh start, wealth and authority alike! We could--" When the demon's hand rose, a scream of panic cut off the babbling pleas; when it fell the scream was stilled in turn by a sickening crunch.

"Besides," Margarita said softly, "there's too many of us anyway."

She had her summoned devils dispose of the corpse and its effects before dismissing them; it would, perhaps, be assumed that Jolais snuck off in the night to escape the inn bill. Perhaps over time his disappearance would be put down to the legend of the Beast of Beaufrere.

Margarita took out the small, leather-bound book in which she'd copied down the details of every one of her fellow remnants of the Archmage's minions. Perhaps these records should have been turned over to the authorities; all were technically guilty of treason, particularly those whose service dated back to the Archmage's lifetime. But she couldn't bring herself to do it. There were surely ones like herself as well, weren't there? She'd been saved by the remnants from being burnt at the stake by her arch-conservative village, even her own family. Certainly they'd wanted something from her, had used her in service to their own interests, and had encouraged her efforts in the dangerous and corrupting practice of sorcery, but they'd also protected her, supported her, gave her a place where who and what she was was welcomed.

She couldn't just give them up to the law. Not when there were those like her, who'd served out of obligation. Not when there were those who now sought only to live quietly without evil intent.

As for those like Beauregard Jolais, whose corruption had clearly been more than a merely political allegiance to Archmage Calvaros...

Margarita took the page with Jolais's name on it, deftly tore it out of the notebook, then burnt it in a puff of conjured flame. She raised the hood of her cloak once more, and slipped into the trees on her way back to the inn.

_- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -_

_A/N: Names from this story include:_

_Harvey Webbinger -- from the Harvey Wallbanger_

_Thomas Collins -- taken from the drink of the same name_

_Geraldine Collins -- since she's Tom's sister, they go as a pair...a "Tom & Jerry"_

_Beauregard Jolais -- Beaujolais_

_Grigio Pine -- taken from a brand of wine, Pinot Grigio_

_Dr. Slivovitz -- a plum brandy (Jonathan Harker gets offered a flask of it in _Dracula_)_

_Cassie Sirop -- _sirop de cassis_, a black-currant liqueur (favored by Hercule Poirot, incidentally, giving a ridiculously obscure clue to which character would be the heroine)_

_Lord Calvert -- after the brand of whiskey_

_Bonus points to anyone who caught Geraldine's reference to "dark shadows" at her family estate...since it's the Collins family. Tom Collins also showed up in the supporting cast of my "Life in a Bottle," while another relative of the Calverts has a part in "The Hollow Heart."_

_And...Happy Halloween!_


End file.
